


i just want you (to dance with me tonight)

by anotherplaceintime (marvelleous)



Category: Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dancing With the Stars, Angst, F/M, Rating May Change, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:01:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24350977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marvelleous/pseuds/anotherplaceintime
Summary: Claire Beauchamp and James Fraser are the favourites on this season of Dancing with the Stars, but the connection between them on the dance floor may have them leaving the competition with more than just the Mirrorball Trophy.
Relationships: Claire Beauchamp/Jamie Fraser
Comments: 271
Kudos: 260





	1. First Step

**Author's Note:**

> I am not sure if this has been done before, but here is the prologue of my DWTS AU. I would like to thank my beta @the2ofusnow for her endless support, she has truly gone above and beyond for me on this one!

August 21, 2019  
 **‘Dancing With the Stars’ 2019: Cast Announcement** **  
** **GMA** by Natalia Brighton and Friedrich Rockwell 

Singer/song-writer turned actress Claire Beauchamp is looking to add yet another skill to her already extensive list of accomplishments when she hits the dance floor this coming September on the new season of Dancing with the Stars. While still a relative newcomer in Hollywood, she has already made a name for herself through her music; her most notable single “To the Moon”, was the featured song in this year’s Oscar winning film “Leaping”. She most recently made her acting debut in fantasy film “A Garden of Glass”, which is due to hit theatres early next year. Beauchamp will be accompanied on the dance floor by new DWTS professional, James Fraser. 

* * *

It was raining the day she left Scotland. 

Her other memories of that time are shrouded in an impenetrable mist, buried away in the deepest, darkest part of her mind, often unreachable but never forgotten. 

She remembers the rain though. 

To this day she can still recall each droplet that fell upon her skin, slowly but gradually soaking through the layers of her clothing, chilling her to the bone. 

She remembers the cold.

The freezing wind that turned her lips a dangerous shade of blue, left her shivering uncontrollably in the night, was nothing compared to the ice that had built up around her heart. 

She remembers the darkness. 

The stars had been hidden behind the clouds, the moon nowhere to be found; the entire city plunged into darkness by a storm that only a fool would try to venture out in. There was nothing to be seen, save for an occasional flash of lightning illuminating the flooding streets, followed by the cacophonous sound of thunder, so loud that it reverberated through her body. The tears that left hot tracks against her chilled skin had ceased to fall long before the dawn broke.

She remembers the light. 

The storm raged on even as the sun rose, and she watched, curled up alone on the ground, as dark slowly gave way to light, as the colour seemed to bleed back into the city, as the night faded away. The shades were dull, washed-out greens and greys, everything around her blending together through the early morning mist, save for the patches of wildflowers that grew around her. 

_Forget-Me-Nots._

The petals had bruised easily between her fingertips as she tore the flowers from the ground, breaking their stems and ripping their roots from the mud, releasing her pain and anger the only way she knew how in that moment. She had let the ruined flowers scatter around her as she turned away and left the park, the broken pieces of her heart falling too. 

* * *

Wednesday afternoon finds Claire buried in the cushions of her sofa, one arm thrown across her eyes to block out the light and the world, trying desperately to figure out the next verse in the song she’s supposed to be working on. Perhaps she would be more productive testing out melodies on the piano, or actually putting pen to paper and writing down prospective lyrics, but she can’t bring herself to move from her current position. She hasn’t produced anything new in months; not since returning from shooting in Spain, and the powers that be at her record label are getting nervous. To be honest, she doesn’t give a damn what they think of her, but their attitude is inherently contagious, and as a result she’s received daily check in messages from her agent since the moment she arrived in Inverness. 

They’re innocent questions, asking how she is, what the weather is like, if she’s hit any good bars, but Claire has known Geillis long enough to read between the lines. She’s actually surprised the woman isn’t being more direct, and that she has yet to check in today, but relieved all the same. The truth is, she doesn’t know why the words are not coming to her as easily as before, why the string of notes in her mind are the same B flat over and over. She cannot explain why every attempt at crafting a new melody leaves her wanting to crawl back into bed, throw the covers over her head and pretend that everything around her is still. 

These are thoughts she does not relay to anyone, not even Geillis, who would surely say something comforting. She can almost hear the familiar voice in her mind, reassuring her. 

_“Ye produced a new album every year fer three straight years Claire, ye just finished filmin’ yer first ever movie, yer due tae be takin’ a wee break now.”_

Not that three months could be considered a _wee break_ by any stretch. At this rate, she’ll have nothing new to release this year. It’s not as if she’s contractually obligated to pump out new music like a machine, but given the complete lack of progress, she cannot help but feel like a failure. She didn’t leave her old life behind in order to chase her dreams, only to give up a few years in. The negativity is certainly not conducive to the creative process, and she groans as she rolls over onto her stomach, pressing her face against the arm of the sofa, leather clinging to her skin, trying not to think about how long it had been since she gave the entire thing a wipedown.

She doesn’t move for a moment, trying to forcefully empty her mind in an attempt to reboot, an aggressive form of meditation that has a variable success rate, but just as she feels the thoughts fading away, there’s a loud knock at the door. With a heavy sigh, she forces herself into a sitting position, throwing off her blanket and shaking out her hair before making her way down the hall towards the entrance of her apartment, already anticipating the sight that will greet her. 

Sure enough, she’s barely managed to pull the door open before Geillis is barging in, all bright red lips and stiletto heels, not a hair out of place. 

“I distinctly remember giving you a key to this place when I moved in,” she grumbles, closing the door with a little more force than necessary, and sliding the lock back into place before heading back to the sitting room. 

Geillis, who has already made herself at home in Claire’s favourite armchair, raises one manicured red brow, lips curving into a teasing smile. 

“I couldna just let myself into yer private livin’ quarters Claire, that woulda been verra rude.”

Claire does not bother to respond, simply re-situating herself beneath her worn tartan blanket, slowly and purposefully tucking the fabric around her. 

“Yer startin’ tae become one wi’ yer furniture.”

There was the Geillis she remembered. The same one who had cornered her at a pub after a performance one night, four years ago, slung an arm over her shoulder and yelled drunkenly in her ear, _“How would ye like tae be a star lassie? I can make it happen, ye ken?”_. Unfortunately for Geillis, her reflexes had kicked in, earning the woman an elbow to the face before the two of them could be properly introduced. One broken nose and trip to the emergency room later, Claire had found herself an agent, who thus far, had been living up to her promise.

“If you've come here just to tell me that, you can kindly fuck off.”

Her words earn her a terribly fake gasp, and not for the first time Claire understands why Geillis dropped out of acting school to become an agent, the latter of which she has far more talent for. She’s pretty sure this visit is not just to check that she’s still alive, that the woman must have some ulterior motive for coming in person and not forcing some poor intern to make the flight over. 

“Fer yer information, I came bearin’ news. There’s a wee reality show that would love tae have ye on as a celebrity guest. Ye’d need tae stay in Los Angeles for a few months, and I ken ye dinna like the city, but it might help ye out of this funk,” She wrinkles her nose, gesturing in Claire’s general direction as she finishes speaking. 

Reality television.

It was one thing she had not expected to hear coming from her agent, given that the woman knew her preferences when it came to appearances. Concerts she could do, singing on a stage in front of thousands of people, the lights around her bright enough to be blinding, the music in her ears deafening, the combination allowing her to pretend she was alone in a room, singing for nobody and everybody at the same time. Everything else that came with a semi-successful music career she was not so keen on, including music videos, which were always created with her artistic vision in mind, but never featured her physically.

The thought of exposing herself in front of cameras, knowing that she would be edited to appear a certain way had her involuntarily sinking further back into the sofa cushions, pulling her blanket tighter around her, as if the fabric would be enough to shield her from all the horrors of the world. The logical part of her mind thinks it may be a possibility, that perhaps all she really needs is a change of scenery before she’s back to recording new tracks. She tries to put on a brave face, though she knows that Geillis will see right through it anyway.

“What show?” 

She doesn’t miss the look in Geillis’ eyes and the slight upturn of her lips before she speaks. 

“Tis the show wi’ all the sparkly costumes where celebrities learn tae dance, Dancing with the Stars.”

The world seems to slow to a stop, and along with it, her heart. 

Claire is dimly aware that Geillis is still talking, tattering on about the details surrounding her appearance if she should choose to participate, but all she can focus on is trying to breathe, to not collapse with the onslaught of memories assaulting her mind. 

_Sight._

Red curls, shades of copper, auburn, gold and all else that lay between, blue eyes that bested the sea on its clearest day, the ripple of muscles as he moved around the room, body forming shapes that were too beautiful to describe. 

_Sound._

Soft, calming music that seemed to play whenever they were together, the gentle thrum of his heart when she rested her head upon his chest, the way the timbre of his voice seemed to change when he spoke to her. 

_Smell._

The faint tang of sweat that always seemed to linger in the air, his preferred brand of deodorant, and something else that she cannot put her finger on, even to this day. It was the smell of home, comfort, a scent that had long faded from the tartan blanket around her shoulders.

_Touch._

His skin against hers, hands clasped together, fingers intertwined and the way she burned, even through her clothing. His arms around her waist, the way his chin would rest upon the crown of her head as they moved together. 

_Taste._

Whisky. Her lips pressing insistently against his, his tongue teasing hers, the nip of his teeth as they tried to consume one another for all too long and yet, not long enough. The salt on his skin as she kissed away his tears, the last time she had ever laid eyes on him. 

She surprises herself with the level of control she has in this moment, sitting still and trying to refocus her attentions rather than fleeing to her bedroom and crying from the pain not only within her heart, but radiating throughout her entire body. 

“Now I ken tis not the sort of project ye would usually do, but I do recall ye watchin’ the show once or twice." 

Geillis' assessment of her viewing habits as “watching the show once or twice” is _very_ generous considering she hasn't missed a single episode in the past three years, not since James Fraser joined the troupe. Once, in a moment of weakness, she had even rearranged her recording schedule on the off chance he would be on screen for more than thirty seconds, committing every moment to memory. She knew that this kind of behaviour was not healthy, but try as she might, she could not let him go. Not without knowing, getting some sort of closure on the matter.

If exposing herself to the world meant that their paths would cross once more, even just for one day, she would not hesitate. 

“Yes.”

"I think ye’d enjoy the dancin’, and ye could expand yer network, meet more people in the industry, ye ken? Not tae mention that it would also be a verra good opportunity for ye to build yer fanbase.”

“Yes.”

“And before ye say no, it comes with a pretty pay cheque, and I’ll be hirin’ ye a publicist tae take care of things for yer, and we can go fer coffee and drinks because we’ll be living in the same city.”

“Geillis!”

It takes the sound of her name to snap the other woman out of her tirade, and Claire finds herself smiling for just a moment at the look of stunned silence upon Geillis’ face at her next words.

“I’ll do it.”

The pause after she voices her decision lasts only a moment before her agent begins to delve into the details, but Claire does not hear any of it, only the sound of her own heart pounding in her ears, wondering if she has made the right decision. It takes only seconds for her to conjure up a dozen scenarios which would leave her picking up the pieces of her already damaged heart, barely mended in the ten years that had gone by. It was said that time heals all wounds, but she does not think that amount of time exists. 

She is prepared for him to not care for her any longer, knows that he has moved on with his life. 

Nothing will compare to the pain she has already known. 

_Nothing._

Nothing, except the realisation of her greatest fear. 

That she could stand beside him once more, look into his eyes again after ten long years, and find that he does not even remember her.

That, she does not think she can survive. 


	2. The Dance Begins

** dance  ** verb  
to move one's body rhythmically usually to music : to engage in or perform a dance  
 _Merriam-Webster Dictionary _

_dance; standing in his arms, cradled in warmth and love, swaying to the sound of their hearts, beating as one._

* * *

August 29, 2019  
 **‘Dancing With the Stars’ 2019: Meet the Newest Professional** **  
****PEOPLE** by Amelia Sanders and Holly Weston

This week, we had the opportunity to speak with one of Dancing With the Stars’ newly promoted professionals, James Fraser. Born in Scotland, Jamie, as he is referred to by friends and fans alike, moved to Los Angeles to pursue his dancing dreams, and joined the cast as a troupe member over three years ago. This will be his first season as a professional, and he expressed his excitement over his new role during our conversation. 

_“Just being part of the troupe has already been a dream come true. I have found a family away from home with all of my fellow cast members, and I am so very grateful that I have been given the opportunity to share my choreography as well as partner up with a star this season. I hope to make it a memorable experience for my partner and the audience as well.”_

We were unfortunately unable to capture Jamie’s delightful Scottish accent in text, but rest assured, it is indeed genuine, and we’ll likely be hearing plenty more of it when the show premieres next month. 

Note: At the time of this interview, the professionals had not yet been assigned their partners for this season. 

* * *

In moments like these, Claire wonders if the universe is playing a joke on her; if whatever greater power exists in this world has it out for her and wants nothing more than to make her suffer. If there is a God, they surely must have better things to do than mess around with her life, to bring forth coincidences that cannot be explained away by anything other than fate or divine intervention.

Three months ago, against her better judgement, once again following her heart over her head, she had agreed to make a public mockery of herself, signing up to appear on reality television. Just the thought of allowing the world a free preview of her private life, to lay herself bare in front of the cameras and welcome the judgement of prying eyes is enough to bring forth a queasy sensation that begins in the pit of her stomach and quickly overtakes her. She quickly forces her eyes open, taking in a slow, deep breath, and reminding herself that getting sick in the middle of a flight is not the way she wants to begin this particular chapter of her life. 

In an effort to distract herself, she begins fiddling with her ring, a nervous habit that she does not think will be broken until a day should come where she takes the darn thing off. The golden band has been a permanent fixture on the ring finger of her left hand since the day Frank had put it there, and despite the way things had turned out between them, she still wears it to remember him by. 

Christ, she had always been so fucking sentimental.

Brushing away the memories of her one failed relationship, she closes her eyes once more, leaning back in her seat, allowing the vibrations of the aircraft to lull her into a state of relaxation. She had always loved flying, the feeling of being so high above the earth and that much closer to the sky, where it seemed that even the stars were within her reach. 

_"Yer like the moon Sassenach, eternal beauty and the brightest light in the darkened sky."_

His voice echoes in her mind, an unwelcome presence tugging her between the past, present and future. She succumbs to the pull, doesn't try to fight it now, knowing that her efforts will be hopeless and allowing herself to fall through time, back to a moment she had been truly happy. A smile forms on her face as she replays it, over and over, remembering the depth of his gaze, penetrating her to the very core, watching her with an intensity she had never felt before she met him. She remembers the heat that had spread across her cheeks at his words, how she had ducked her head, not wanting to ruin the moment by pointing out that the moon didn't really have light, that it simply reflected the sun's. 

If she was the moon, then surely he was the sun.

If only her brain would come up with original phrases, instead of parroting cheesy quotes from romantic comedies or lines from classic love songs. 

She was nothing but a lifeless rock without his light.

_Very poetic,_ and not a particularly fair depiction of her life, but it's all she can come up with before she's drawn back to the present by a sudden jolt. 

The plane dips sharply for just a moment, and she feels as though she is falling freely, tumbling into the abyss with no way to stop. It’s almost like being blinded, diving headfirst into a bottomless pool, knowing that she’ll sink deeper and deeper until she finds the strength within her to break to the surface once more. 

Strength, to live life and not simply exist, to make the right choices and to keep herself steady.

But the thing is, James Fraser has always been her weakness. 

Just the thought of him causes her entire body to involuntarily shudder, yearning for his touch, knowing that soon, she’ll be tortured by the sensation of his hands, holding hers, spanning her back, fingers curling into the dip of her spine, perhaps even caressing her face. 

Whatever the cameras called for. 

_Yes_ , she had said, to signing her life away for months, to unending scrutiny and an onslaught of panic and anxiety. All this and more she would sacrifice for a chance to speak with him again. 

A chance, she had been given. 

But it would not be a fleeting moment, the two of them passing by in the studio one day, her calling out to him and the two of them sharing an awkward embrace as old acquaintances, brushing over their shared past and then moving on, falling into the rhythm of their own lives once more. 

No, she would not be given an easy way out.

She had been prepared for their paths to cross once more, even going so far as to rehearse what she might say to him, until a single message from Geillis had sent her into a downward spiral.

_Re: Dancing with the Stars, you've been partnered with James Fraser, will send you details via email. Here's a wee pic, he's a looker!_

What happened next was not unlike a scene from a movie, playing out almost in slow motion as her phone slipped from between her fingers, landing right side up on her carpeted bedroom floor with a dull thud. Her thumb must have brushed the screen as the phone fell, because she found herself staring at an image of the man who had haunted her mind both in dreams and in waking. 

It was a photo she had seen before, the same one used on his IMDb page, a perfect representation of his personality in pixel form. He was leaning against a building, shoulders relaxed and his head turned towards the camera, a genuine smile upon his face as he posed for whoever had taken the shot. The soft red curls she remembered so vividly had been cropped short, dyed dark and slicked back, but all else had remained the same. How many times had she fixated on this image, trying desperately to cling to the sensations that had long ago been burned into her memory, to not lose them with the passage of time? 

_“Ye have a glass face, ye ken? I can see yer every thought, and I know yer thinkin’ of me.”_

There’s no doubt in her mind that he’ll still be able to see right through her, plunder the depths of her mind for every secret, read her like an open book, but she’s determined not to make it an easy task. 

Ten years is a long time to learn, to grow. 

She can pretend now, act as though she hasn’t a care in the world, trick him and everyone else into believing that he no longer has an effect on her. 

As the pilot’s voice comes over the speakers, announcing their impending arrival, she takes a deep breath, counting to ten, before releasing the air within her lungs. 

_Buck up, Beauchamp._

It’s too late to turn back now. 

* * *

The first shout of recognition as she is ushered off the aircraft by security has her freezing on the spot, shoulders tensing up as she hears her name being called by someone in the distance. There’s no time to process it, and she keeps her gaze trained to the ground, allowing the guards to whisk her away before she is approached by a particularly overzealous fan. 

She had dressed with care, ensuring that she looked presentable in case there were paparazzi lurking around, searching for their next big scoop. Geillis had given her a lecture the day before, warning her about the dangers of letting her guard down for even a second. It was not her first trip to Los Angeles, but she was practically unknown during her last visit, still having the freedom to roam the city without anyone recognising her. 

Things are different now. 

While she can still get away with living a relatively normal life back in Inverness, there’s not a chance of that here. Despite the discretion of the staff, and protection of her hired guards, she has already been spotted again, and again. 

She feels like the main attraction at a sideshow, being laughed at by a gathered crowd. 

What must these people think of her, so rudely ignoring their calls, deliberately not making eye contact, fleeing to safety without sparing them a glance? She can hear the shouts, the screams, the cheers, but she does nothing save for putting one foot in front of the other, trying to tune out all sound. 

By the time she collapses into the back seat of her private car, her breath is coming out in short gasps, vision blackening at the edges. 

_It will pass_ , she thinks, over and over. 

It always does. 

* * *

Geillis gives her exactly two days to settle in before showing up at her temporary Los Angeles apartment, newly hired publicist in tow. 

Decidedly _not_ a morning person, Claire is still half-asleep when they appear on her doorstep, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, acting as though it weren’t the fucking crack of dawn. Before she can get a single word in, not-Geillis hands her a cup of coffee, and for about five seconds, she just stands there, slowly blinking, unable to comprehend the sheer ridiculousness of being up at this hour. 

“Ahem.”

She’s not quite sure who cleared their throat, Geillis or not-Geillis, but it’s enough to force her into consciousness for about a minute, which is exactly how long it takes for her to accept the offered coffee and down about half the lukewarm liquid, bitter in her mouth. It only takes her another thirty seconds to finish off the rest, and she estimates that the caffeine will start to kick in soon enough. 

Claire turns, finding the pair seated side by side on the love seat in the lounge area, already spreading what she assumes to be paperwork out on the coffee table. Left with no other choice, she shuffles over towards them, placing the now empty coffee cup on the table, before heading for the armchair, sinking down into the plush velvet and making a mental reminder to procure something similar for her apartment back home. 

“Claire, I’d like ye to meet Marsali MacKimmie. I’ve hired her tae take care of yer public image and such while you’re on the show, and perhaps afterwards too, if things work out.”

Marginally more alert, Claire gives not-Geillis, no, _Marsali_ , a once over, observing her almost cherubic facial structure, high ponytail and the way her eyes are glued to her phone, fingers tapping furiously across the screen. She comes to the conclusion that this Marsali can’t possibly be more than sixteen years old. Of course, appearances can be deceiving, and age does not necessarily correlate with skill, but surely Geillis wouldn’t hire someone to work for her _illegally_. She chooses not to question it for once, and holds out her hand for the woman to shake. 

“It’s nice to meet you.”

Marsali does not take her eyes off her mobile device, extending one hand and carelessly completing their handshake, as she continues to scroll through whatever it is she’s so absorbed with. 

“Pleasure. Now, have ye ever considered gettin’ a pet? Might make you more relatable to yer fans.” 

She doesn’t think she’s met anyone so direct and to the point since Geillis, who is currently looking awfully smug at the mix of astonishment and appreciation that has likely spread across her features.

_Damn her glass face._

* * *

In moments like these, Jamie is grateful for the tolerance for idiocy that he has built up during the past few years. As a teenager, he had often let his emotions get the better of him, swinging fists and breaking bones without a second thought, allowing himself to be consumed by the white hot rage that flooded his veins. His temper had led him into all manner of reckless behaviour, and more trouble than he could handle, so he’s done all that he can to reign it in and truly think before he acts. 

As a result, he now has the good sense not to cave in a colleague’s nose over a passing comment. 

"A ringer on your first season, the powers that be must love you."

His increased control does not equate to completely masking his anger; his breathing pattern changes, long inhales and short exhales, as his fists clench and unclench. The instigator of his poorly concealed rage doesn’t even seem to have noticed, clearly taking his silence as a sign to continue. 

“Heard she’s a right bitch though, so I can’t say I envy you.”

A hand clamps down on his shoulder before he even has a chance to process the words, and it’s a good thing too, because while he can tolerate insults to his character, he can say with confidence that there will never be a day where he could stand idly by and let someone make such statements about _her_. In fact, he might just have to reassess his stance on violence because he’s not quite sure anything will be more satisfying in this moment than breaking something with his fist. He watches, quivering in anger as the man heads to the other side of the studio, an apparent lack of regard for the heinousness of his words, and strikes up a conversation with two other dancers.

He inhales, sharply. 

The grip on his shoulder tightens, and though it’s nowhere near enough to physically restrain him, it does serve as a gentle reminder that no amount of satisfaction is worth the assault charges that will inevitably follow. 

“Jamie.”

At the sound of his name, he forces the fury to fade, and begins to turn. 

John, who is apparently satisfied that Jamie will not change his mind and bolt at a moment's notice to exact revenge upon the bastard, loosens his grip and retracts his hand. 

“I wasna going to hit him.”

The lack of conviction in his tone has John looking very skeptical. 

“Though I canna say that I didn't imagine what it might be like to give him a wee tap, right in the face, or perhaps between right the legs,” he concedes, shrugging his shoulders a few times to help rid himself of the tension, before sinking down onto the floor next to Fergus, who regards him with a poorly concealed smirk. 

“I for one think it's very romantic that you wish to defend your lady's honour,” the young man informs him. “She will surely fall into your arms in thanks, or onto her knees, if you get my meaning.”

Jamie reaches out with one arm and gives Fergus a rough shove, demonstrating his disapproval at the bawdy humour, but electing to avoid giving a response to the first part of his friend's statement. 

“You’re going to find yourself battling an expensive sexual harassment lawsuit one of these days if you don't watch that mouth,” John cuts in, one hand messing up Fergus’ curls before none too gently flicking his ear.

Jamie tunes them out as they begin to argue over what is and isn't considered appropriate workplace banter, shuffling over to give himself more room. He slips a hand into the side pocket of his bag, retrieving his phone and wireless earbuds, slipping the latter into place as he selects a playlist on Spotify. As the opening notes of the first track begin, he returns his phone to its previous position, before lying back, arms folded behind his head, knees hips-width apart and planting his feet solidly against the ground. 

He closes his eyes, steadies himself, and begins his mid-morning training routine, the strength of his abdominal muscles easily allowing the transition between lying down and sitting up. 

The world around him fades away, and all that remains is her voice inside his head.

Strange, how easy it is to lose himself to the music. 

The melodies that are as familiar to him as the beat of his own heart and lyrics that he can recite back to front, forever ingrained in his memory. In harmony, they become an endless inspiration for his choreography, and have the power to reduce him to a broken mess, curled up and crying like a bairn, seeking a comforting touch. 

_Her touch._

_Her voice._

In less than twenty-four hours, he'll be face to face with her, the only woman he’s ever loved. Likely, the only woman he'll ever have such feelings for. Even in the ten years they've been apart, he's never met another that has been able to make his heart race in such a way, to make him feel so complete, as if their souls had once been one, torn apart at some point in time and yearning to be whole once more.

_Claire._

_His_ Sassenach _,_ he thought, but she wasn’t.

Not his, never his. 

She had belonged to another, as much as a woman like Claire Beauchamp could belong to any man, leaving him no choice but to accept his fate.

No one knows the truth of it, what she means to him, how they had done this before, moved together across the dance floor with so much passion he was convinced his heart would burst. There's a weight upon his chest, having chosen to conceal their past from those around him, but he couldn't speak of it, not without sharing the entire truth. He can't speak of it now, knowing that one word to the wrong person could mean losing her again, before he's even had a chance to see her again, to touch her, to hold her in his arms and fill the void within his heart, if only for a moment.

It's no secret amongst his friends and coworkers that Jamie Fraser is a fan of Claire Beauchamp. Fergus and John regularly rib him about it, and he can't count the number of comments people have made, particularly since they all learned that she would be appearing on the show; even more so after the producers had assigned him to be her partner.

No one knows the truth of the matter, that he's in love with her, has been in fact, since the moment he first laid eyes on her.

Nobody knows, at least, not yet.

He vows to control himself, to not do anything that could negatively affect her in any way. The last thing he wishes is to chase her away once more with his feelings, for he knows for certain that only in his dreams does she return them. Nothing had changed in the time that had passed; she had other ties, the most sacred vows of all, binding her to another man. He had been foolish enough when he was younger, pleading with her to see _him,_ to give him a chance, allow him to prove his love to her. 

Jaime knows better now; she had made her choice back then, never turning her back upon the man she truly loved. 

He cannot allow his feelings for her, however powerful and all-consuming they may be, to interfere with her marriage. It’s a line that he will not cross. 

But at the end of the day, he's only human.

And so he vows to _try_.

* * *

Sweat.

She can feel it, on the back of her neck, at her temples, and on the palms of her hands.

Never before has she been this nervous; she practices a smile, one that Marsali had remarked made her look _“less intimidating and more approachable”_ , and reminds herself that everything will be fine. 

As they come to a halt, the metal enclosure jolting, Claire wipes her hands on her dress, thankful that stains have less of a chance showing up against the dark fabric. She takes one step, and then another, following the women out of the lift, and she can hear the sound of enthusiastic conversation coming from a room at the hallway. Thirty steps she estimates, as she tries to filter through the voices, searching for a match to the Scottish burr she remembers so well, but finds nothing. 

Geillis had already met with the producers the day before, discussing with them the finer details of Claire’s responsibilities as a star, information which had been relayed to her, at length, over dinner last night. She knows her schedule for the day, that she'll have twenty minutes to meet the cast, before they all head down the hall for a promotional photoshoot. The other stars are likely already in hair and make-up; she had arranged to arrive as late as she possibly could in the hopes of delaying the inevitable.

_They probably thought she was some sort of diva._

No matter; anything to limit the number of spectators to such a momentous occasion in her life, not that anyone would know it. She had no expectations now, mind emptied of the fantasy versions of her impending reunion with a man she could only describe as her one true love, as cheesy as it sounded, even in her head. 

Geillis and Marsali pause outside the doorway, and she thinks she has only counted twenty-eight steps, but that’s the least of her worries now. _Smile,_ the two women tell her with their eyes, and she does, easily slipping into the persona she has adapted for public appearances. 

_It’s now or never._

She takes another step, projecting the confidence that has always existed within her, despite sometimes being difficult to locate amongst her other states of being, and moves into the room. There are at least a dozen people loitering around, all dressed to the nines and engaged in various stages of conversations. The majority of them turn in her direction as they register her presence, but she finds her gaze trained on the one man who by all means appears to not have noticed, still standing with his back facing the doorway. 

He’s as tall as ever, towering over most of the rooms’ occupants, including herself, straight backed and broad shouldered, and she finds that her hands are growing clammy once again. The hair is unexpected, a mass of red curls like the ones in her memories of him, and not the darkened locks she had grown accustomed to since he began appearing as a troupe member on the show. 

Before she can be thankful for the extra time to compose herself internally however, his companion, a young man with dark brown curls and a cheeky grin elbows him, none too gently she observes, and he’s turning. 

Her throat seems to close up, mouth growing dry, but she remains upright, mask never slipping. She can feel Geillis’ hand on her back, gently urging her forward, but she finds herself unable to move, frozen in place as she scans his face, taking in all his features but avoiding his eyes. As he begins moving towards her, she sees his smile, and feels the tension beginning to slip away.

For a moment, she allows herself to smile back, genuine and from the heart. 

And then he’s there in front of her, left hand extended in greeting, and she finally looks up and finds _nothing_.

“I’m James Fraser, it’s nice tae finally meet ye,” she hears him say, an echo of the first time they met and yet, there’s no acknowledgement of that meeting, no sign that he remembers. There’s still warmth and sincerity, but those are the things that are a quintessential part of him, not reserved solely for her. He’s regarding her with the politeness that one might reserve for a stranger, and she recalls the pain she had felt _that night_. That fucking awful night, filled with cold and darkness and heartbreak, had ripped her to pieces. 

But this is nothing short of unbearable. 

Willing herself to be steady, she reaches out and places her hand in his, trying not to physically react to the jolt of electricity that runs through her body the moment they touch. She cannot help but notice how dry his palms are as he wraps his thumb and fingers around her hand, almost overlapping due to his sheer size. 

“Claire Beauchamp. The pleasure is all mine,” she somehow manages to say in response, willing her voice not to waver.

She pauses as he shakes her hand, firmly, and as much as part of her that wants to let him hold her hand forever, she quickly withdraws, folding her arms around herself. It’s a defense mechanism and definitely does not make her _approachable_ , but it is all she can do to protect herself. 

“So have ye ever danced before?” he asks, looking down at her with what appears to be genuine curiosity, and she wants to scream. She wants to throw herself into his arms, beat her fists against his chest and cry. It takes all the strength within her, power she hadn’t even been aware of until this moment in order to conceal her emotions, to prevent her glass face from betraying her.

_Don’t you remember how you held me in your arms and made me feel as though we were the only two people on this earth?_

“No, not really. I danced with my husband at our wedding, but that’s the extent of my experience.”

Even the mention of her marriage to Frank, the catalyst for them being brought together that first time, ten years ago, appears to spark no recognition, and the single shred of hope that had remained, vanishes.

“Ah, no matter then. That’s what yer here for, to learn how.”

The _worst_ thing is, she can’t even be angry at him for it. 

It isn’t _his_ fault. 

Ten years is a long time, and she knows he’s lived such a spectacular life since, travelling around the world and meeting all kinds of incredible people. There was no way the six weeks they had spent together could even compare, and standing here now, she wonders if she had been mistaken, if the connection between them had simply been a figment of her imagination. She tries vehemently to convince herself of it, the fact that she had placed too much weight upon their brief relationship, if one could even refer to it as such. Had she fooled herself into believing that he could possibly feel the same way she did, after only fleeting moments together? 

But then there were all things he had said to her, the way he had looked at her with such tenderness, held her as though she were the most precious thing in the world. 

He had been a strapping young lad of only twenty years then; perhaps he whispered sweet nothings to every woman who looked his way. 

She can’t lay any blame on him, but she still has her pride. If he looks at her and sees nothing but a stranger, she cannot let him know the truth of things. She has to pretend that he has no effect on her, that there is no deeper connection; it’s her last line of defense, all that she can do to protect what’s left of her heart. 

Geillis, who has apparently decided that Claire has paused for too long without responding, steps forward and begins her own introductions. 

“Aye, and we are verra excited that she was asked tae appear. Claire’s a fan of the show, ye ken? Geillis Duncan, Claire’s manager, and I think ye already know Marsali.”

Claire hangs back, not entirely sure of what to do with herself. It’s a bloody miracle she’s still standing, a smile frozen on her face. She watches Geillis and Jamie’s, no, _James’_ exchange, notes the apparent ease with which they converse, bonding over their shared heritage. He still throws his head back when he laughs, eyes crinkling in delight, and just when she thinks the pain had already numbed her, he turns to Marsali and pulls her in for a brief hug. 

In the three days they had known one another, Marsali had never mentioned being acquainted with Jamie, though to be completely fair, Claire hadn’t exactly asked. Someone could have said _something,_ anything, that would have left her feeling less like a gaping fish. Clearly Geillis had known about the connection; had they been purposely hiding the truth from her? She’s evidently overthinking things now, overwhelmed by the emotions that have arisen thus far. 

This is just the beginning. 

Even today is far from over; there’s a mixer for the cast _after_ the photoshoot, and she’s already promised to make an appearance. There is no plausible excuse she can think up to present to Geillis that will let her off the hook. She begins to ponder the feasibility of pretending to pass out and just living with the embarrassment when the sound of someone clearing their throat interrupts her train of thought. 

It’s the young man from earlier, the one who had brought her to Jamie’s attention when she entered the room, and she’s honestly grateful for the distraction. 

“You must be Claire. My Marsali told me she was working for a superstar. I was so jealous she could meet you before me. I’m Fergus, and a huge fan of your work.”

Claire finds it surprisingly easy to fall into a conversation with Fergus. He speaks to her as though she is just another human being, and for that, she is so grateful. His smile widens when she mentions that she has watched the show, looking almost bashful when she tells him he was robbed of a place in the finale the previous season. He tells her that they often have her music playing around the apartment, but before she can ask who _they_ refers to, his gaze is drawn to a spot over her shoulder and there’s a sudden light in his eyes.

“Marsali, ma chérie, you did not mention how lovely your new boss is.” 

The differences in his tone as he addresses Marsali are subtle, but Claire notices. He sounds lighter, happier, a man in love. Marsali, who has made her way over to them, gives Fergus a kiss on the cheek and tucks herself against his side. 

“I didna wish to be fired for breakin’ my NDA, my love.”

They’re both incredibly young, she thinks. 

To be so young and so sure of one’s future; she can only imagine what it must be like. 

As she watches the two lovers banter, she becomes acutely aware that someone is watching her, feels the way the hairs on the back of her neck stand up, but she’s afraid to turn, afraid of what she might find. She does not get the chance to, the feeling having long faded by the time she makes up her mind. 

If there were any hope left within her heart, she might have imagined it was Jamie watching her. 

But she knows better now. 

* * *

The hair and make-up professionals are evidently well versed at getting things done in a hurry, because they manage to have her all glammed up and camera ready within half an hour. She ducks off into the ladies’ room to get changed; the dress is tight, covered in sequins and crystals, and the amount of fabric leaves her feeling uncomfortable and a tad self-conscious. 

Despite the care she puts into taking care of her own body, at thirty-five years of age, she’s certainly no spring chicken.

She arches her back, craning her neck to try and get a glimpse of her arse in the mirror, and wrinkles her nose at the sight. 

It really could have been worse. 

They do individual portraits first, and she poses for the camera, following the photographer’s instructions as he directs her to look in a particular direction, angle her body a certain way, rearrange her limbs until she’s almost off balance, teetering on these dance shoes that have evidently _never_ been broken in. The lights surrounding her are blinding, so there isn’t much she can actually see, but she feels it once more, the intense stare that elicits an involuntary shudder. 

Perhaps she’s coming down with something, or the stress of this situation is getting to her. 

She tries her best to focus, does it too well apparently, because it escapes notice that she’s no longer alone until she takes a step backwards and collides with a solid mass. The shock of it causes her to lose footing, and for a split second she wonders if this is her ticket to freedom; a broken ankle would surely be a valid excuse to high-tail it out of here. But before she can fall, a pair of hands reach out and grab her waist, holding her in place, and this is probably the most cliché thing she has ever experienced in her life.

“Careful, wouldna want you to hurt yerself.”

In truth, she realises that it’s Jamie behind her, holding her, before he even speaks. It’s strange to think that after so long, she can still remember his touch, how it feels to be held by him, but she does. She straightens up, shrugging awkwardly and turns to face him, trying to ignore the way her heart rate has already increased, brushing it off as a side effect of her embarrassment. He doesn’t release her, hands steady as she moves, resting firmly against her hips even as they stand almost chest to chest, face to face. 

“Sorry…” she mutters, eyes fixed firmly on his throat, watching the movement of his Adam's apple as he swallows. “Clumsy.”

“Aye, ye are. But dinna fash, I’ve got ye now, I won’t let you fall.”

She closes her eyes, tries to keep her breathing even and shallow, afraid to become familiar with his scent once more, wondering how much it must have changed in the time that had passed them by. Her arms are tucked at an odd angle between their bodies, his fingers curving against the shape of her back, and slowly, she tilts her head upwards, opening her eyes to find him staring at her with a most peculiar expression across his features. 

It’s not something she can place, both uncomfortable and unfamiliar. 

There’s an intensity.

And then a flash goes off, sending her straight back to reality. 

“Could you two turn to the side and repeat that pose? And try to relax.”

He releases her then, waits for her to make the first move as they shuffle into position, turning and smiling at the camera. The photographer issues them further directions and they follow, moving in tandem, rearranging themselves with each shot taken. 

It starts off easy, safe, and the connection is subtle. She’s a little nervous, hesitant to touch him so freely.

Them, holding hands, arms outstretched and ready to take a bow. 

Matching positions, standing one in front of the other, hands on their hips, prepared to conquer the world.

Her, posing dramatically with one arm above her head. Him, in a lunge position, smirking at the camera. 

Then, there’s a shift. For some inexplicable reason, it’s easier when they’re touching.

Face to face, her hands resting against his shoulders and his at her waist, not unlike two teenagers at prom. 

Standing with her back to him, head resting against his chest as he holds her in his arms.

Hands clasped between them, fingers interlocked, faking joyous smiles.

Finally, there’s a heat. Her heart races, pulse thundering, and it feels as though there is a fire within her veins.

Her arms around his neck, his hands digging into her hips as she drapes a leg over his. 

His hands, deliberately positioned, one curling around her inner thigh, the other holding her against him, just below her breasts.

Foreheads touching as he leans down, gazing into her eyes, wrapped around one another so tightly it’s almost impossible to let go. 

But they do let go, stepping apart as soon as they’re given the go ahead, moving quickly away from the cameras. She tries to be polite, turning and shooting him a quick smile, even as she is torn between wanting to flee the room or leap into his arms. There are still group photos left to take, but the crew need to reset the room, and they are left standing off to the sidelines, forced to make idle conversation or suffer in silence.

“Will ye... will ye be going to the party tonight?” he asks, clearing his throat part way through his sentence, gaze seemingly fixed at some point across the room. 

“Yes, I’ll be there.”

She sees him nod, the way that the corner of his mouth moves, tugging into an almost imperceptible smile, and prays that she has the strength to survive whatever it is that is coming for her.

* * *

Claire never does end up making it to the mixer that night. 

She’s barely conscious, drunk out of her mind and in the middle of a particularly horrific breakdown when Geillis and Marsali find her, curled up on the kitchen floor, clutching an empty bottle of wine, almost like a lifeline. 

“Och, hen, ye didna need to suffer like this.”

Boneless and having lost control over her body, she doesn’t protest as the two women pry the bottle from her hands and haul her into her bedroom, using all their strength to drag her dead weight between them. She collapses against the sheets, mumbling incoherently, as they replace her dress with pyjamas, forcing her arms through the sleeves. Before she can roll over and plant her face against the pillows, they coax her into taking some ibuprofen, washing the pills down with water that soothes her burning throat. 

“Ye should go home Geillis. I’ll stay wi’ her, make sure she doesna’ get sick.”

She’s dimly aware of a cold cloth being pressed to her forehead as she falls into a tormented slumber, dreaming of red curls and warm hands and love, long lost. He does not come to her even as she calls his name, screaming out for him, until her throat is raw and her voice is gone. 

“Jamie,” she whispers in a moment of lucidity, before she’s once again consumed by darkness. 

  
  



	3. Hold Me

** hold ** verb  
to support in a particular position or keep from falling or moving  
 _Merriam-Webster Dictionary _

_hold; feeling safe, knowing with certainty that I would never fall, for he would always be there to catch me.  
  
_

* * *

  
September 5, 2019  
 **‘Dancing With the Stars’ 2019 Prediction Polls:** **  
**** TVLINE  **by Elena Romano

The stars have yet to hit the dance floor on this season’s Dancing With the Stars, but already predictions are rolling in, and not only regarding which pair will take home the coveted Mirrorball Trophy. Fans of the show have also begun to place bets on which team will be eliminated first, as well as the possible match-ups for switch up week, when each of the celebrities are given an opportunity to dance with a different professional. Representatives from the studio have confirmed that switch ups will take place, but the other theme nights for this season have yet to be revealed. 

You can place your predictions in the polls below and vote for the stars that you think will make it to the finale, and won’t survive the first round of eliminations.

**Who will win this season of Dancing With the Stars?**

  1. Geneva & John 26%
  2. Claire & Jamie 19%
  3. Louise & Fergus 14%



....  
  


* * *

  
There’s a melody trapped within her mind, a series of notes playing on repeat, but she cannot recall where she had first heard it. Perhaps it was as a child, in the few precious years she spent with her parents before their untimely passing, listening to the radio on Sunday mornings before brunch, or sometime during her nomadic adolescence, while travelling the world with her Uncle Lamb. Ultimately, it matters not where she picked up the tune, only that it’s haunting her now, all that is recognisable amongst the darkness of her dreams. 

It remains, looping in the background like a broken record, even as her dreams morph, fragments of memories rearranging to bring forth yet another piece of her past. 

There had been rain that night; just a light drizzle and nothing compared to the torrential downpour of the day before, but in her rush to make it to the dance studio on time, Claire had left her coat back at the university library. She had realised her mistake about five seconds after stepping outside, the temperature having lowered quite dramatically as the sun began to set, but the need to arrive for her lessons on time had outweighed the still bearable nip in the air. 

In the end, she had been late anyway, apologising profusely to the receptionist whose name she had yet to remember before darting down the hallway to the private room where her bi-weekly lessons took place. The door was open, the previous students having already left, which meant that Claire was _very_ late. The two occasions where she had turned up on time, she was greeted by the sight of a group of young women fawning over their dance instructor, asking him all manner of inappropriate questions that would have surely resulted in a sexual harassment claim had it been the other way around. She had stepped in both those times, earning her looks of contempt from the women and what she thought to be a sigh of relief of their unwitting victim.

Jamie had the patience of a saint, and never uttered a single word against them, but Claire could not help but feel that he was more relaxed when not in their company. The tension appeared to seep from his body, and he would always look to her with the most dazzling smile.

In that moment, she had been so consumed by thoughts of him, completely spaced out and ended up walking face first into a solid mass of well-sculpted muscles and tousled red curls. 

"Och Sassenach, yer late again! And ye werena lookin' where ye were headed. I must say that doesna bode well for my toes. Ye ken I still have bruises from last time?"

He had scolded her jokingly, made sure she was steady on her feet, before sweeping her off into his arms for an hour of dancing and twirling. It was different, being in his arms, in a way she was unable to understand at the time. There was a sense of freedom that allowed her to feel lighter than the air itself, something she had never experienced in her life until then. 

She only stepped on his toes twice, a significant improvement from earlier on in the week, where she had noticed Jamie visibly limping off to the staff changing room as she left for the evening. 

Due to her tardiness, by the time their lesson had concluded, they were the only two left in the building. She stayed behind, offering him company as he locked up as an apology for keeping him so late, though he had made it clear he did not mind it. A true gentleman, he had even insisted on escorting her home, given it had long since grown dark outside, the streets empty and unsafe for lone wanderers. 

As they stepped out into the chill of the night, his hand felt like a living flame against the small of her back, burning through the thin cotton tank top she had thrown on that morning in anticipation of their class together. They had only made it two paces before he froze, a deep frown forming upon his face as he felt the droplets of rain hit the tip of his nose and the shudder that had run through her body.

_“Sassenach, ye’re shakin’ so hard it’s making my teeth rattle.”_

She had shrugged her shoulders, wrapped her arms around herself, ran her hands up and down, felt the goose flesh beneath her palms and cursed herself for not remembering her coat. He had drawn back, and she watched helplessly, feeling the loss of warmth his touch had provided, as he rummaged through his gym bag. She could not control the smile that appeared on her face at the furrow of concentration between his brows and the subsequent "A-ha!" that he had released upon finding his prize. 

It was a large tartan blanket, and she could do little but stand as he draped the fabric over her shoulders. She had been enveloped, overwhelmed by the scent of _him_ , and it had only increased tenfold when he wrapped an arm around her, holding the blanket in place as he urged her to start walking once more. The ten minute journey to her apartment had somehow taken closer to twenty, and when they had reached the front of her apartment complex, she had lingered, not quite wanting the evening to end but hesitant to invite him upstairs.

He was her dance instructor, not her friend.

But he had been so kind and caring, having gone above and beyond to accommodate her awful schedule, and walked her home in the rain without complaint. 

In the end, the decision had not been made by her. 

“Try to be on time next week won’t ye, Sassenach?” he'd quipped, squeezed her arm gently and then bid her a good evening, before he slipped away into the darkness of the streets, headed back in the direction they had come. 

She hadn’t realised that she had forgotten to return his tartan until later, sat on her bed, holding the material tight around her shoulders as she surveyed the apartment she had called home for the last three years. Her belongings had been packed away for the most part, ready to be shipped out to Boston in the coming weeks, and she had felt as though she was a stranger in a strange place. She had stayed there, twisted the garish engagement ring on her left hand and counted down the days until it would be replaced by the simple gold band she had chosen for herself. 

All that had brought her comfort in that moment was the warmth and weight of a single gesture. But then the moment had ended, and she pulled the fabric from around her and stood, laid it out upon her bed and folded it neatly, intent on returning the plaid to its rightful owner. 

Her intentions had not been realised.

The memory came to an end but still the melody continued to play, the same haunting notes, again and again, until everything faded away and darkness turned to light. 

* * *

When Claire awakens she becomes aware of a few things in a very particular order.

One; she is lying in bed, which means that she had somehow dragged herself off the kitchen floor, which is where her memories of the previous evening ended, or someone had done it for her.

Two; considering the amount of alcohol she remembers consuming prior to blacking out, her mouth is suspiciously free of the taste of vomit and the pounding headache that usually accompanies her nights of copious alcohol consumption is barely noticeable, presenting as a dull throbbing at her temples.

Three; judging based on the amount of light that she can see, even through closed eyes, it is most definitely some time in the afternoon. Claire is not exactly a morning person, but she rarely sleeps this late into the day, and she had only allowed herself to get piss drunk last night with the knowledge that she had no other engagements to deal with.

Four; there's an incessant tapping noise, sometimes slowing down or speeding up but never truly stopping. It almost sounds as though someone is typing on their phone, which could only mean-

She slowly opens one eye, frowning at the amount of light that is close to blinding in her current state, turning to the source of the noise.

"Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ!" 

Her exclamation comes out as a croak, and she wonders for a moment why she hadn't noticed her sore throat earlier, before focusing on the matter at hand. Marsali; publicist, soon-to-be social media manager slash personal assistant, had apparently now been upgraded to glorified Claire-sitter. Wearing the same clothes as she had the day before and lounging in a high backed chair that Claire is certain did _not_ belong in her bedroom, Marsali’s attention is fixed on her mobile as usual. There’s a charging cable connected to the device, and she follows it over to the bedside table, where the lamp has been unplugged, the cord pushed off to one side to make room for the clutter that now fills the previously empty space. 

A half-empty packet of ibuprofen tablets. A glass filled with water. A hand towel from the bathroom, still damp. Her phone, which has just lit up with an incoming message, does not vibrate or make a sound, which leads her to believe that someone (read Marsali) switched the device over to silent mode. Whether that was out of consideration for her impending hangover or out of desperation due to the incessant notifications, Claire is grateful. 

“Ye talk in yer sleep, did ye ken that?” Marsali asks, finally looking over at Claire as she sets her phone down onto the ground. It’s a struggle deciding what to be more shocked at; the implication of Marsali's words or the fact that she had deemed _this_ conversation vital enough to put her phone aside and give Claire her undivided attention.

"Oh God.”

She presses the heels of her palms against her closed eyes, trying to imagine the embarrassing things she may have said while intoxicated and wondering if any of it will end up as blackmail material. Based on testimony from her friends during university, she had a tendency to lose all inhibition after one too many drinks, after which she became a blubbering mess, either laughing or crying hysterically, depending on her mood. There’s really no telling what she might have shared during her bouts of consciousness throughout the evening, but she has a feeling that Marsali will not say anything else on the matter unless Claire is willing to ask.

“Here, ye should drink some water. Geillis said she would pop by fer dinner and a chat. I’ll keep ye company until then.”

Pulling her hands away from her face, Claire blinks hard, several times, clearing her vision as she pushes herself into a sitting position, before accepting the glass Marsali is holding out to her. The cool water soothes her throat momentarily, though from experience, Claire knows it will take her a day or two before her voice is back to normal. She processes Marsali’s words as she drinks, wondering how concerned she should be that Geillis is afraid to leave her alone and unsupervised. It’s pointless to try and argue with the woman when she has her mind set on something.

Dinner and a _chat._

Claire wonders just how much trouble she is in for skipping out on last night’s mixer, and raises one hand to her forehead, groaning in frustration. Wordlessly, the packet of ibuprofen is thrust towards her, and she takes two tablets, swallowing them with a grimace. She spaces out for a moment but finds that her hands are empty when she blinks back into reality, and Marsali has resumed scrolling through her phone. 

Allowing her eyes to fall shut once more, she leans back against the headboard and decides that she does not completely regret her actions, no matter how vindictive they may seem to her now. 

Jamie may not remember her, but she hopes he remembers the feeling of broken promises. Of course, there’s every chance that he had paid her words no mind, that he hadn’t expected or even anticipated her presence last night, but such thoughts are unbearable. Her behaviour may have been childish, and she swears to herself that she will try her best to leave any grievances about their past in the past from now onwards. 

She promises to do better, not just for him, but for herself.

* * *

When Marsali lets herself into _“The Bachelor Pad”_ just before midnight, she is greeted by a rather strange sight. It’s stranger than the events of the previous night; finding her new boss, who had once been referred to by the media as a _“stoic ice queen”_ , not only piss drunk and bawling like a newborn bairn, but also yammering on about things that made little sense. She wonders if it’s sleep deprivation making her see things, but after several deliberate blinks, the image does not waver.

Fergus and John are curled up together on the ground at the end of the hallway, brows raised comically high and ears pressed to Jamie’s bedroom door. She’s not quite sure what they’re trying to hear, because the apartment is drowning in the all too familiar sounds building to the chorus of _Hold Me_ , track number seven from Claire Beauchamp’s debut album _Another Place, Another Time._

_I wondered if anyone could see,_

_The way I surrendered and let things be_

_When I was in his arms he whispered softly,_

_As long as we both shall live, will you hold me?_

Marsali had always found the lyrics particularly cheesy, the melody much too melancholic and depressing, and did not understand why it was a favourite of Fergus’ flatmate, but as the song continues to play, she can feel the metaphorical cogs turning inside her mind. 

_Claire_ had broken down _afte_ _r_ the first meeting and photoshoot yesterday afternoon.

_Jamie_ had apparently locked himself inside his room, for how long Marsali has no clue, listening to _her_ music at a volume that will likely earn them a noise complaint.

She has two emotionally fragile artists on her hands, who had both decided to lose their inhibitions on _the same day._ Another interesting detail is that _Jamie_ had been a tad obsessed with Claire's music since the day Fergus had introduced her to him, and according to Geillis, _Claire_ had been following the show for the last three years, which coincided with the season Jamie had joined the troupe.

Normally she would let out a triumphant cheer, followed by a proclamation along the lines of _"I could be a detective,"_ but in this case, she cannot give herself all the credit. 

After all, Claire had called out Jamie's name in her sleep a total of _seven_ times, _not_ that Marsali had been keeping track.

She's entirely convinced that something must have happened between the two of them at some point, though the exact nature of that _something_ is a mystery to her. There's little she can do but hope that two grown adults can get their shit together long enough to survive the show.

And perhaps give them a bit of a nudge along the way. 

* * *

It’s important to reflect on the decisions one makes in life, and Claire really feels this statement, standing in her kitchen in the early morning, having a staredown with the blackened omelette she had just turned out onto a plate. She’s not sure why she thought trying to follow an online recipe from some famous French chef was a good idea, considering how she predominantly lived off take-away food or meals that only required a microwave to prepare. 

Geillis had insisted she give her therapist a call and talk things out, and Doctor Joe’s advice could be condensed to “setting herself a proper routine and taking time to remember the little joys in life”.

In the days since then, she’s truly made an effort to let herself be happy, instead of seeking out things that would only bring her momentary exhilaration. She’s written pages upon pages of lyrics, chunks of prose that make sense only to her, and dabbled with possible melodies and harmonies, fingers flying across the black and white keys of the grand piano situated within her apartment; the only request she had made when Geillis had inquired about her preferences for her living space. Her time here is temporary, but it doesn’t stop her dreaming of the little herb garden she’s always wanted. She visualises it, sketching crude designs, pencil to paper, and thinks that it may be time to find a cottage of her own when she heads home to Scotland. 

Her new outlook on life doesn’t make dealing with the ghosts of her past any easier, but gives her something different to focus on, and for that, she is immensely grateful. 

Taking one more look at the charred mess of eggs and spinach on her plate, she dumps the contents into the bin, feeling guilty for the wasted food, but not guilty enough to give herself food poisoning, especially not on today of all days. She hasn’t seen Jamie in over a week, their only contact having been through Geillis and Jamie’s representative, a man named Harold Grey. In her understanding, some of the other stars would only be training with their dance partners for a couple of hours a day, three or four days a week, but given that Claire had no other commitments at present, an agreement had been reached for a more rigorous schedule. 

Eight hours a day, five days a week, with the nature of the training to be agreed upon by her and Jamie as they got to know one another a little better. 

She feels moderately prepared for the physical activities; she’s broken in her dancing shoes by wearing them around the apartment, gone for a light jog each morning to help with her stamina and tried her best to eat healthier. The art of dance is something she has admired her whole life, and she has no doubt that Jamie has only improved as a teacher in the past ten years. 

This could be a positive experience for her if she allows it, and she thinks, she might be ready to try. 

* * *

Walking through the doorway to the studio space and seeing Jamie standing there, messing around with the music player, brings forth a wave of nostalgia that she _had_ been expecting. 

What she doesn’t anticipate is the strained smile he gives her when she enters. 

She smiles back though, dropping her gym bag onto the ground beside his and making her way over to him. 

“Good morning, Claire,” he says, and there’s something in his tone that feels so cold, even as he extends a hand for her to shake. She tries not to let the shock show when she sees his bruised knuckles, the sun-kissed skin of his hands mottled with black and blue, but cannot help staring. She’s careful when she touches him, thumb gently skimming over the darkened patches, trying not to apply any pressure. 

“Good morning, James,” she responds, letting her hand fall back to her side when the exchange of pleasantries has concluded. 

“Ye can call me Jamie lass, everyone does.” 

She releases a breath she had not realised she had been holding at these words, feeling a little less tension between them. 

“Alright, Jamie it is then.” 

They share a smile, but apparently her visual examination of his hands is not quite as subtle as she had intended, and he glances down before scratching the back of his head and shrugging. 

“There was a wee bit of an accident at the gym. I didna wrap my hands properly before goin’ at the punching bags and weel…”, he trails off, a rosy pink hue dusting his cheeks, “Let’s just say it’s a good thing that shooting doesna begin fer another two weeks.”

She laughs at that, and watches as he smiles in return; it's more relaxed, less forced but still does not reach his eyes.

"You should be more careful," she chastises, unable to reign in her concern for his battered hands. Without a second thought, she reaches out, taking his much larger hand in hers, bringing it closer for inspection. She frowns at the broken blood vessels, the sheer amount of bruising and wonders just how hard he had been going at those punching bags to injure himself so badly.

"Doesna hurt so much now," he murmurs in response, and if the look on his face weren't quite so endearing, she would be tempted to smack him upside the head and lecture him on how a lack of pain does not mean he can have so little regard for the self-inflicted damage being done to his body. There's also the fact that they're pretty much strangers, and it isn't exactly her place to be telling him how to live his life.

"Still..." she sighs, trailing off as she withdraws her hands once more, wrapping her arms around herself and marvelling at the man's ability to completely unravel her at the seams. 

"What have ye been up to since last we met?" he asks, quite pointedly changing the topic of conversation. 

She shrugs, tilting her head to one side in consideration of how much she should share.

"Nothing too exciting. Unpacked my things, explored the neighborhood a bit, wrote some music, the usual." 

Claire wisely chooses to leave out the part about getting blind drunk and crying over something that he doesn't even remember, because that is sure to be a mood killer and their first day has hardly even started.

"Now I wouldna refer to your music as usual," he tells her, managing to sound completely sincere despite the teasing tone in his voice. She blushes at this, feels the heat rise in her cheeks and ducks her head, not having prepared to respond to compliments, which in hindsight, is entirely her own fault, given her prior knowledge of Jamie's charms. As if sensing that he has rendered her speechless, he continues.

"I ken ye said that ye dinna have much experience with dancing, so I thought we might start with the basics and I dinna mean the basic dance steps and such, those will come a little later." He pauses, allowing her to process the information, and only continues at her nod. "I thought it would be a good idea for ye to start out with some running, to build yer endurance and maybe some other cardio activities. Flexibility is also important for dance, and we'll have to work on yer core and posture. Now we can find you a personal trainer for these things, but if yer happy wi’ it, I would gladly offer myself to assist ye."

It's almost embarrassing how she doesn't even need to consider the first option, quickly giving her assent to the second.

"I think it will be better for our partnership if we go through the entire process together," she tells him, hoping that her reasoning sounds logical enough. He had made the offer, but she's also pretty sure Jamie is contractually obligated to spend as much time with her as she is amenable to.

"Aye. Weel, perhaps we can go for a quick run through the park, and then find somewhere to sit down, maybe talk about what we want tae present to the cameras. The producers will have their own ideas, but I think it's important to stay true to what ye believe in."

She smiles again, raising one hand to tuck a stray curl behind her ear. 

"I couldn't agree more."

They both move to rummage through their respective bags, pulling out essential supplies for the trip. She retrieves her phone, tucking it into the concealed back pocket of her leggings, but leaves her earphones behind. Music was good to occupy her mind when she ran alone, but she thinks it might be rude in the company of others. Digging around in the main compartment, she finds the baseball cap and sunglasses that Geillis had presented her with upon her arrival in California. 

_"Stealth gear, ye ken? Works better than ye might think!"_

Glad she had the foresight to pull her hair into a braid this morning, she pulls the cap over her head, effectively securing the shorter curls that refused to remain braided. She wonders whether or not she should put her sunglasses on now or once they have exited the building, and looks towards Jamie for guidance. 

His very distinct red curls have been tucked inside his cap and his eyes and half his face are concealed by a significantly sized pair of shades. She slips her sunglasses on, watching as the world around her suddenly darkens, and hopes that it's enough to conceal her identity.

* * *

There's a rather concerning burning sensation in her lungs and all throughout her legs, but Claire has never been one to throw in the towel without first pushing herself to the limits. They've been jogging for close to thirty minutes, with intermittent breaks by water fountains that give her just enough time to catch her breath and satisfy her parched throat before they're off once more. She feels absolutely disgusting, skin damp and sticky, tank top plastered to her back and marvels at how Jamie has yet to even break out in a sweat. They were already exercising at a reduced pace for her sake, which adds to her reluctance to beg off and ask for a proper break. 

Fortunately, neither of them have been recognised thus far, though Claire is not sure any of her fans could identify her when she's this much of a sweaty mess, face likely flushed red from exertion. 

She somehow makes it to their next mini-break without collapsing, and tries to draw successive lungfuls of air as steadily as possible, but Jamie turns to her, wrapping a hand around her upper arm. There is no doubt in her mind that his grip alone could hold her up and prevent her from collapsing like a sack of grain, but she really has no intention of drawing any unnecessary attention.

"Maybe we should take a wee break and grab a quick bite tae eat. Nothing too filling, but ye'll need the energy if we're to continue training back at the studio." 

She nods, breathing deeply and wondering how much of this torturous running she'll have to do before she can do a lap of the park without wheezing. Jamie's hand doesn't move from her arm until she straightens up, and she thinks he must have felt how disgustingly clammy her skin is. 

"There's a wee coffee shop just around the block; we should be able to talk there."

They walk side by side, so close that their arms almost brush, though Claire very consciously prevents such a thing from happening. Though strolling at a leisurely pace through a shaded area has left her skin dry once more, they haven't exactly set boundaries for this partnership, and the last thing she wants is to make Jamie uncomfortable.

He is so incredibly considerate, and would likely not voice a complaint; she knew he was exactly the sort of guy that would climb a tree to rescue some kid's cat or help little old ladies cross the street. As they arrive at their destination, he holds the door open for her, ushering her inside with a hand on the back of her shoulder.

The interior is dark, to the point where Claire cannot see while wearing the sunglasses, so she slips them off, hooking them on the front of her top. She watches Jamie do the same thing before they approach the counter to order. Heeding his advice, she picks something that will hopefully not leave her feeling bloated afterwards, paying with a quick tap of her phone. She then steps aside and listens as he asks for _the_ _usual_ , observing the completely enamoured expression that has appeared on the cashier's face. One could hardly blame the woman for her reaction, but Claire is almost beginning to feel like the third wheel by the time Jamie finally ends the conversation. 

"There's a quiet spot in the back," he says, turning his full attention to her, and she gestures for him to lead the way. As they make their way over to the secluded booth, she slips the cap off, tucking it beneath her arm. She can only imagine how horrifying her hair must look right now, but keeping a sweat-slicked hat on longer than necessary for the sake of vanity is not worth it.

He takes the chair right in the corner, facing the doorway and she sits down opposite him, grateful for the seating plan, even if his choice had been completely incidental. 

"So tell me, Claire, why did ye sign up to be on the show?" 

Jamie is sitting up straight, hands clasped on the table in front of him, looking every inch like the interviewers she speaks with far too regularly for her taste. He's already struggling to keep a straight face, but when she bursts out into laughter, he loses all semblance of seriousness and joins in. When the giggles subside, she takes a moment to truly consider the question, before giving him a response.

"I've always wanted to learn how to dance, and I thought it would be a good experience. I've watched the show for a few years now, and I guess I just wanted to know what it's like behind the scenes. It's so strange to me, to be considered a star. I certainly had not pictured such a life for myself growing up. I was just a girl in a bar, writing and performing my songs, wanting to share the music I had created with those around me. Of course that was when I met Geillis, and my life has never been the same since. I didn't sign up so I could promote my own work or boost my popularity, though I can't say my management team agrees with that sentiment."

She finds herself rambling on about the ups and downs of her career to date, revealing things she never intended to. They aren't major secrets that will end up on the front pages of tabloids if they were to be leaked, but rather parts of herself she kept tucked away for no one to see. It's so easy to talk to him about such things, because she's already done so before. For his part, Jamie listens intently as she speaks, absorbing her every word, a rather pensive expression on his face.

"I dinna ken how many weeks we'll last wi'out having a clear agenda, but I am verra grateful tae have been matched up with ye."

She reaches out and squeezes his hand, careful to avoid the bruised spots and hopes that her touch can convey the feelings she cannot voice. It's something she has very little control over, the need to bring comfort to others through touch, as if her hands could magically heal all their ailments. She sneaks a glance at his face, and finds that he is staring rather intently at her other hand. Her fingers immediately still in their movement; she had been tapping out a beat, to the rhythm of her own heart, a subconscious action that others, including Jamie, likely found irritating. The repetitive clang of her ring against the wooden table top probably hadn't helped matters, though his gaze doesn't waver even as she stops. 

They lapse into silence, neither of them making a move to speak, but it's not uncomfortable as Claire had feared. The nerves and fears remain, but there's also a sense of calm that washes over her.

It feels... natural. 

The moment is interrupted by the arrival of the food, and Claire quickly withdraws her hands, resting them in her lap as the waiter sets down their orders. Her rainbow salad definitely lives up to the name; cherry tomatoes split in two, carrots julienned, slices of fresh mango, chunks of avocado and a scatter of blueberries, all resting upon a bed of mixed leafy greens. 

“That looks verra healthy,” Jamie comments, eyeing her salad with what she can only describe as suspicion. She takes a look at his meal, seeing the mountain of shredded chicken, roasted vegetables and an assortment of grains, and can’t help but snicker in amusement. 

“You were the one who said we shouldn’t have anything too filling.”

“I’ll have ye know, this is a verra respectable chicken salad,” he informs her, grabbing his fork and taking a large bite. 

“I can see the chicken, not so sure about the salad.”

She laughs at the way he tries to pout, cheeks stuffed with food, making him look rather like a gluttonous chipmunk. Wisely, she chooses not to voice _that_ particular thought, having no desire to end up covered in half-chewed food from a spit-take or perform the Heimlich should he end up choking. 

“Aye, yer a witty one,” he tells her once he swallows, reaching for his glass, which is filled with a viscous substance far too pink to be natural. She allows herself to grin at his remark, which does appear to be a compliment, and redirects her attention to her food, savouring each and every bite. 

_The little joys in life._

* * *

They’re a block away from the studio, so close to safety, but the moment that Claire thinks they’ve made it through their little excursion unscathed, she hears someone yelling her name. She pauses, eyes scanning the street, trying to locate the source of the voice, when she spots a young man and woman rushing towards them. 

Thankfully, no one else in their vicinity seems to have noticed her presence. 

She forces a smile, trying to keep calm and hoping this interaction will be over sooner than later. 

“Oh my god, I am just like, so totally your biggest fan,’ the girl begins, rambling on as her companion digs through his bag, pulling out a notebook and sharpie. He shoves them in her direction a tad forcefully, but she accepts, quickly scrawling out her signature, looping over the capital _C_ , the rest of the letters of her first name near indecipherable, and then a capital _B,_ followed by a squiggle that in no way corresponds to her last name, which is far too long to sign out.

“It was very nice to meet you both,” she says, handing back the now signed notebook, hoping that they can tell she is trying to bring the conversation to a close. 

“Can we grab a photo?” the man asks, but Claire can tell that it’s not a question, but a demand. Even as she opens her mouth to reject his request, he’s stepping into her personal space and she can feel invisible walls closing in around her. She tries to step back, to move away, but he reaches for her, grabbing her arm in the same spot that Jamie had earlier. 

She had been comforted then, but now all she feels is fear and panic. 

For a second, she’s no longer out in the sunny streets of Los Angeles, but back in the darkened streets of Edinburgh, after her first sold-out performance, all her senses dulled by the adrenaline that had been coursing through her veins. She had been grabbed, pushed and pulled, so forcefully it left imprints on her skin and in her mind. 

She had screamed then, but now she’s frozen. 

Before she has a chance to react, she’s being pulled away, torn from the grip of a stranger and placed in a position of safety, directly behind Jamie’s towering form. She sees the way the muscles in his back have tightened, drawn together, as if he’s preparing to injure his hands further.

“Ye cannae just lay a hand on someone wi’out their permission.”

The underlying aggression in his voice is terrifying, sends a chill running down her spine even as she cowers behind him. 

“Chill out dude, we meant no harm.”

Claire is consumed by her own thoughts as the two argue over the man’s behaviour; _she_ had touched Jamie, without his consent, several times in the past two hours. Had she made him uncomfortable by doing so? Was he too polite to say anything at the time? Had there been a hidden meaning behind his words? 

She barely registers it when the man and woman move along; she can hear them cursing her out, but the sound grows quieter as her surroundings change. There’s a warmth around her, encasing her, protecting her, and when she returns to reality, she sees that they have somehow made it back to the studio.

“Are ye okay?” 

They’re alone, the doors closed behind them, and so she chooses truth over lies and shakes her head. She wants to reach out to him, to steady herself, but she’s so afraid. 

Afraid that he’ll pull away. 

“Ye dinna need tae be afraid Claire, not so long as I’m with ye.”

His voice is closer now, and she looks up to see that they’re standing _very_ close together. She sees his hand move from the corner of her eye, hesitating, and she takes that last step, leaning into him as his arms surround her. 

_Trust is the most important thing in a partnership,_ she had read in an online article weeks ago. 

_Trust_ is exactly what she feels towards this man.

_Trust_ is what she had given him, all those years ago. 

He had broken her trust then, but she thinks that deep down, she had already forgiven him for it, long before today. 

As they stand, locked in an embrace, the song begins to play in her mind once more. Even conscious, it's a melody she cannot name, with no real significance until she suddenly remembers where she had first heard it. 

A time and a place so far from here.

Her neighbour had set his music to an obnoxious volume yet again, and the notes had surrounded her as she stood naked, under the scalding hot water in her bathroom, willing the pain to wash away. She had not been able to decipher the words to the song, so she made up her own.

_Of broken dreams and broken hearts, and broken lovers, torn apart._

Even as he cradles her in his arms and mutters reassurances in his gentle Scottish burr, it feels as though there is an endless chasm between them. His palms draw slow circles against her back, and she can picture it, the first signs of a bridge, barely a foundation but enough to give her hope.

Hope that at the end of all this, she'll find her way.

Somewhere.


	4. Learning

** learn  ** verb  
to gain knowledge or understanding of or skill in by study, instruction, or experience  
_Merriam-Webster Dictionary _

learn; discovering all the finer details about him, remembering each of his little quirks, like his inability to wink or how he always ran a thumb over the line of his jaw when deep in thought. 

* * *

September 7, 2019  
**Claire Beauchamp spotted getting cozy with dance partner** **  
** ** RADAR ONLINE **by Justine Franco and Nicola Min

With Dancing with the Stars set to premiere in just under two weeks, many of the stars have been popping up around Los Angeles, but it seems some of them are closer to their partners than others. Singer Claire Beauchamp was seen taking a casual stroll through the streets near ABC studios with her dashing partner, James Fraser. The pair seemed to be in high spirits as they conversed, presumably taking a break from dancing. At one point, when they passed a particularly loud crowd, Fraser put an arm around Beauchamp’s shoulders and led her away.

Beauchamp, who is notoriously secretive about her private life, has never been pictured without her wedding ring, but could it be that she’s looking for something new with her hunk of a dance partner? Handsome and protective, we certainly wouldn’t blame her!

* * *

He had dreams once. 

Flying across the stage, weightless, turning and leaping and free; a faceless figure in his arms, moving together, in perfect harmony. 

Jamie had been four years old when Jenny decided she wanted to be a ballerina. While their family was by no means wealthy, their parents always sought to give them everything they wanted in life, and not two weeks later, all three Fraser siblings found themselves enrolled at a dance school in the city. It was not quite ballet, but they were too young to understand the difference, and Jamie had fallen in love for the first time in his life. 

He had been hopeless and uncoordinated, tripping over his feet and tumbling onto the hardwood floor, leaving his little knees and elbows bruised week after week. A little pain was not enough to deter him though; he was determined to catch up with Jenny and Willie, who had far more control over their bodies and a much easier time learning the movements than he. 

Dance had not come to him quite as naturally as others but, through dedication and determination and perseverance, he had accomplished far more than his siblings, parents and teachers had ever expected of him. Jenny and Willie had one another for partners, and in the beginning, he was left to pair up with strangers. There were many girls in those early years, all of whom eventually hung up their dance shoes in lieu of other passions while he continued onwards, single-minded in the pursuit of his dreams. 

One day he would tell a story, through movements alone, and all those who watched would understand the weight of these unspoken words, know his innermost thoughts and feel the same emotions that coursed through his body. 

But piece by piece, his dreams slipped away, as childhood fantasies often do when one is forced to grow up faster than they should have to. 

Jamie had only been six years old when Willie died. Still a child, mourning the loss of his brother and idol; he had tried to step up, to fill his shoes. But Jenny had lashed out at him, screaming that she would never dance again, least of all with him. He had cried himself to sleep for weeks, curled up in Willie’s bed, _Sawny_ clutched in his hands, and woken up one morning to find Jenny had crawled in beside him. 

She had extended her hand to him and he had gripped it with all the strength in his body. They made a silent promise that day; to be there for one another through it all. 

Jenny had been taller than him then, but he had caught up eventually. By the time he was eight and she was ten, they were entering local competitions and coming away with ribbons and medals and trophies. 

The evening before one of their biggest showcases, their mother and younger brother passed away. It had been unexpected; they were preparing to celebrate the arrival of a new sibling, and their mother had never had complications before. Their father had been inconsolable, but had insisted they perform, knowing it was what their mother would have wanted. It was Murtagh who helped them into their costumes, wiped away their tears and did Jenny’s hair.

“Yer mam is up there, watching o’er the both of ye,” he had told them, with none of his usual gruffness. 

They had stepped out under the spotlights and given that performance their all, and when Jamie had looked out into the audience afterwards, he had seen his godfather standing there, beaming with pride, tears streaming down his face.

Things had gotten harder then. Dance was expensive and they always seemed to need more, whether it be extra lessons, another pair of shoes or a new costume. For years they survived on scholarships and the goodwill of their instructors, who would often slip in an additional five or ten minutes to their classes, free of charge. But when an opportunity came up to study in France, there was only enough money for one of them to go. 

Jenny had hugged him goodbye at the airport and told him she was proud of him. 

He was headed in the right direction, building a future for himself, on stage, on the dance floor, and then it had all come to a screeching halt. 

The accident, his injury, his father’s death. 

There was a time to chase your dreams, and there was a time to face reality, and he had no choice but to live. Gone were the days of endless training, connecting one movement to another and experimenting with leaps and turns. As soon as his rehabilitation was complete, he had taken up a position as an instructor at his old dance studio, teaching basic steps to complete beginners. 

He no longer danced for himself; all his hopes for the future had been neatly tucked away, like an old book slipped into the corner on the highest shelf, forgotten, left collecting dust. The story was not complete, but there was no will left to finish it. There was nothing left to do but forge on ahead, to try and pretend that he was content with the life he was living. 

To pretend that there wasn’t still a part of him that yearned for more.

But each time he moved, he felt the pull of the scars on his back and remembered that he could no longer be whole. Dance had given him something to hold on to, something to look forward to, and losing it had left a gaping hole in his life that nothing else could complete.

_Until her._

* * *

Jamie had woken up that morning expecting to head into work and spend hours on end with his students - Margie with the hip replacement who told him all about her grandkids while they did the cha-cha; Olivia, who was forty-five, single and reminded him of it every week; and Sophie and Amelia, the six year old twins who didn’t need to be pulled from school in order to attend private dance classes despite their mother’s insistence on the matter. 

He really didn’t mind them so much. 

The afternoon classes were a different story. 

Two hours with a group of women who had no concept of boundaries, who were more concerned with checking out their reflections in the mirrored walls and making lewd comments about his body than learning the art of dance. It was truly the stuff of nightmares. 

The only upside on this particular day was the anticipation that always preceded the arrival of a new student; there was the danger of gaining yet another student who had very little interest in dancing, but at the very least they would be a fresh face. According to Mrs. Fitz, who was in charge of maintaining the schedule at the studio, his new student was not likely to fall into that category anyhow. 

_“Ye have a new student in yer evening time slots on Tuesdays and Fridays fer the next six weeks. Guy rang in looking fer lessons so that his fianc_ _é_ _e could learn tae dance before their weddin’. Paid in advance fer the whole lot.”_

It had taken a fair amount of self control not to ask why on earth this man would send his fiancée off to take dance classes by herself. He had given many a lesson to future brides and grooms prior to their weddings, but always together. While it truly was none of his business, he couldn’t help but harbour a sense of disdain for this man he had never even met, based purely on this one decision that had been made.

The disdain turned to irrational hatred and envy when _Claire Beauchamp_ walked into the studio late that afternoon, stepping into his life with little warning, in a manner that knocked the breath from his lungs.

She was quite possibly the loveliest person he had ever laid eyes upon, all pale skin and wild brown curls, cheeks reddened from the late afternoon breeze and an expression of ire across her features as she _politely_ told his students to excuse themselves. There was something about her, the way she carried herself, with an air of self-confidence that he had not expected. Her voice, melodic as she spoke, a clipped English accent that made his lips turn upwards involuntarily.

_A Sassenach._

She had whirled around to face him then, curls flying around her head, and given him a very pointed look that spoke volumes about the kind of person she was. 

"I'm sorry, lass. I didna mean tae say such a thing out loud."

She had raised her brows at him then, arms crossed in a manner that indicated she was less than impressed with his attempt at an apology.

"So it's okay to think of me in that manner, but not acceptable to voice your thoughts?"

He had stammered, completely at a loss for words while his traitorous heart pounded furiously within his chest, sending a rush of blood straight to his cheeks, causing him to visibly flush in response to her words. She had only allowed him to flounder for another moment or two, before smiling; never before had a change in expression provided him with so much relief.

"I didna mean tae insult ye, lass. When I heard ye speak wi' yer proper English accent, the word just slipped out, ye ken?"

She had snorted, in a completely undignified manner, and then shaken her head. 

"It's alright. But this _Sassenach_ does have a name."

His heart had betrayed him once again in that moment, skipping a beat as she repeated the word back to him. It had sounded so odd in her voice, with the horrendous pronunciation and emphasis on the wrong syllable, but from that point onwards, he could only associate the term with her. 

_Sassenach;_ not just an English person but _one_ English woman, who had waltzed (no pun intended) into his life and taken possession of his heart and soul with just one smile. 

He had known her name, but the shock of meeting her had conveniently emptied his mind of all thoughts.

"Aye, Claire, is it not?"

How foolish he had been then, trying to act nonchalant.

"Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp, soon to be Randall."

Reality fell upon him, not unlike the rain during a violent storm. His father had told him once that he would know for sure, the moment he met the woman he was destined for. He had known, the second he laid eyes upon her, that no one else could ever compare, but it seemed he was a little too late. 

Her heart already belonged to another. 

He made a choice then, standing there, opposite a woman he knew so little of and yet already felt hopelessly devoted to. With all that he had already been through in his twenty years of life, losing most of his family, his hopes and dreams, he could have chosen to be bitter, to curse the world for burdening him with such misfortunes. 

The pain had numbed him to the core but he had been ready to feel again. 

"James Alexander Malcolm Mackenzie Fraser, at yer service."

She had laughed when he bowed to her, a throaty chuckle that was so unexpected yet suited her just the same. 

He offered her a hand and felt as though he had been struck by lightning as she curled her fingers around his. Her skin had been soft and smooth, her touch gentle; their hands had fit together as though they were once one. The sensation of a band of cool metal, pressing insistently against his palm each time she moved, was all that kept him tethered to reality as they danced. 

That and the sharp pain each time she mistepped and trod on his foot. 

“Dinna fash, lass,” he had told her each time, cutting short her apologies even as the bruises began blooming beneath his skin. 

Those first two hours had flown by far too quickly; she had stepped back, no longer in his arms, and he had felt that loss so acutely.

It was like a gaping hole in his chest, a missing limb. 

He had known even then, when they were almost strangers still, that when the time came for them to part, she would leave with his heart and not even realise it.

* * *

It’s seven in the morning and Claire is flying around her apartment, in a mad rush to at least _appear_ presentable before her company arrives. Geillis had arranged for Marsali and Jamie to come and see her in person; Marsali, regarding her future social media presence and Jamie, to further discuss details of their upcoming appearance on the show. She’s regretting her suggestion to have the meeting here, given the physical state of things. When it comes to her music, she’s meticulous; her notes may appear nonsensical to others, but there’s a method to her madness. Her living space however, tends to resemble the chaos that dwells within her mind. Things are always out of place; a coffee mug on the bathroom counter, a novel sitting out on the balcony and her favourite blanket tossed haphazardly over the back of a chair in the kitchen. 

With a sharp inhale, she grabs the worn tartan fabric, pulling it to her chest, over the thundering beat of her heart.

The decision to bring it along with her had been a difficult one. She had folded and unfolded it, packed it away in her luggage only to remove it and lay it out on her bed once more, time and time again in the weeks before she came here. In the end, it had been tucked into her carry-on bag and brought with her onto the plane, the thought of accidentally losing it being too much to bear. 

Perhaps it was foolish sentimentality that had her holding on so tightly to a piece of her past. If one were to analyse her behaviour and observe that she still wore a ring representing a marriage that had been over for eight years, _over before it truly began,_ it could be considered a pattern. But she had reasons for never removing the band from her finger, much more sound and logical than the motivation for keeping an old blanket, one that had very clearly seen many years before it came into her possession.

It made her feel _safe._

On those stormy nights, when the howl of the wind and the roar of the thunder kept her awake in the darkness, she would cocoon herself in the fabric and pretend that she was not alone. 

Two days ago, at three in the morning, when she could not find sleep no matter how hard she tried, she had sat in the kitchen, a mug of hot tea in her hands and the blanket around her shoulders. She had spent too much time thinking, reflecting on yet another day spent at the studio with _him_ , forcing herself to be casual and treat what it was between them as a new friendship.

As with all things in life, it was easier said than done.

Also easier, is ignoring her problems in the hope that they’ll just disappear. This journey will come to an end, whether it be in the next few weeks, or next few months. There’s an inevitability, a finality to it all that gives her an ounce of security. If things go disastrously wrong, she’ll never have to see him again. 

While that thought brings forth an ache in her chest, there’s also a small relief that accompanies it. Whatever may happen, it will give her closure, in a sense. A reason to finally let go of her past and move on with her life, like she’s been trying to do for ten years, with variable success. 

But this tartan blanket, the final physical link she has to him, she knows with certainty she will keep with her for the rest of her life. A memento, first of the six weeks that changed the course of her life forever, and then of whatever time they’ll have together now, whether it be good or bad. And so she treats it with the utmost care, folds it back into a neat square and stashes it on a shelf in the walk-in wardrobe, knowing it likely won’t remain there for long. She makes sure to shut the door behind her, not wanting to risk anyone noticing should they happen to enter her bedroom during today’s meeting.

Perhaps she's overthinking things again, as she tends to do, but the constant need to keep her guard up, even when she's alone, can only be maintained in such a fashion. Part of her wonders why she chose this life; the other, the smaller but still significant part that believes and dreams and yearns for more, reminds her how much these experiences bring joy to her world.

How a smile, from anyone who has heard her music, brightens up her day.

Doctor Joe had repeated it as a mantra to her in the past, the importance of focusing on the positives, to have something to hold onto, even if she felt lost. 

Funny thing is, she doesn't feel quite so lost at the moment, not like before. Stability and calm are not quite present, but there's something else, locking her in place, keeping her from spiralling out of control. It's not quite ever-present or entirely peaceful, but she can feel it. 

She can’t quite put her finger on it, but it's tangible.

Which is why she's dreading the thought of destroying the serenity; bursting the bubble that has somehow formed around her is terrifying beyond all measure.

Geillis had informed her in the beginning that there was an obligation she was required to fulfill, along with the television appearances and behind the scenes training. Social media was the way of the world, and she was expected to partake, regardless of her own opinion on the matter.

_“You know that these things don’t matter to me.”_

Her protests had been vehemently ignored, brushed aside with the wave of a well-manicured hand.

_“Which is precisely why I hired Marsali tae take care of things for ye. It may not matter to ye what yer fans think of ye and ye may think it isn’t important tae have a social media presence in this day and age Claire, but the powers that be care verra much. If ye want tae keep producing music and selling out stadiums, then ye’ll learn tae live life as a someone in the spotlight."_

The argument over having an online presence was one they’d had since their working relationship began, but previously, Claire had managed to come out on top. She had always been fiercely private about her personal life, and she saw no point in changing that simply because of her career choice. Geillis had nudged her on the matter throughout the years they had known each other, to no avail. Now though, she has very little choice, having signed away most of her options in order to be here, in LA, with Jamie.

Not _with_ him.

But with him all the same.

He, who if past experience is any indication, will likely be arriving at her apartment within the next ten minutes. Punctual, as she chooses to remember him, fondly. Not late or uncaring, letting her wait for him for hours and never offering up an explanation for it. 

She’s not bitter about it. 

In the little remaining time she has alone, she moves around straightening things up; a crooked painting here, a misplaced pencil there. When she’s unable to see any more visible flaws, she sinks down onto the plush carpet of the sitting room floor and just takes a moment to breathe.

There will be very little peace in her life after this. It will be chaotic and frenzied and terrifying, and the fear will only grow in magnitude until the end. Deciding to participate on the show had been a turning point, and then seeing Jamie again another. She knows that there will be more, and she’s taken the time to prepare herself for it. 

No amount of time is truly enough, she thinks, when the intercom system alerts her that Jamie and Marsali are in the building and making their way upstairs. Raising a hand to her hair, she debates for a solid thirty seconds whether or not she needs to fix up her appearance before deciding that her hair is going to do what it wants to without regard to her opinion on the matter. 

Sometimes, resistance really is futile. 

Still, she bends over, shakes out her curls, biting back a curse at genetics in the process. She hasn’t retained enough memories of her parents to know who is to blame for her untamable hair, but that’s neither here nor there. Nothing short of hours of treatment by her stylists will have much effect, and she barely has another ten seconds to ready herself before there’s a knock at the front door. With one final glance around the room, checking to see if she’s missed anything and sighing in resignation when she realises she’s fixating on insignificant details once more, she moves to let her guests enter, greeting them with what she hopes is a welcoming “Good Morning.”

Marsali barges right in, already making a bee-line for the kitchen while Jamie lingers inside the doorway, slowly taking in her apartment’s interior. She watches him, seeing the way his gaze dances.

“Brought ye a wee bit o’ breakfast. Didna ken if ye’d had a chance tae eat yet.”

She cannot help but smile at his thoughtfulness, ruminating about how little time had affected that part of him and she ushers him inside. A shiver runs down her spine as he moves past her, his forearm just barely brushing hers. It's all she can do not to visibly react, for she can almost _feel_ Marsali’s gaze boring a hole in the side of her head, as if the younger woman is scrutinising her for some reason. 

Claire hasn’t the faintest idea why she’s being stared down, but hopes it’s related to the gruelling task they have planned for today and nothing more sinister. She shrugs it off, quite literally, shifting her shoulders in a motion she hopes appears more like a stretch, and slowly makes her way towards the kitchen. Unable to resist, she turns her head and finds Jamie quickly averting his gaze. There might be the slightest tinge to his cheeks, but she does not know for sure, the glow cast upon his face by the white lighting of her main living area washing out most colours.

She turns back, quickly, pretending as though she hadn’t noticed, and moves to busy herself with putting water on to boil and then retrieving mugs, trying her best to be a somewhat decent host. Ingredients are retrieved from around the kitchen; tea bags, sugar and honey from the pantry, milk and cream from the fridge. There’s little more comforting than a cup of hot black tea with a squeeze of honey and a dash of milk, but not everyone shares her taste in such matters. Cringing, she deposits two tea bags and three teaspoons full of sugar into one of the mugs, adding in a generous splash of cream. After she sets the beverage down in front of Marsali, she turns to Jamie, who looks rather awkward trying to balance on one of the kitchen chairs which is far too small for his large frame. He gives her a hesitant smile and begins rearranging the food in front of them, and she moves to fix him a coffee, before realising that by all means, she should have no reason to already know his morning drink of choice. Each time they’ve met up for practices, he’s downed nothing but water and the occasional smoothie; it’s quite possible, likely really, that his preferences have changed in the time they’ve been apart. 

Ten years ago, he had sworn by a combination of half a cup of coffee and half a cup of milk with just a hint of sugar, resulting in a lukewarm liquid that she had almost spat out that one time their orders had been mixed up. 

“What would you like to drink?” she asks him even as she moves towards the espresso machine. He pauses for a moment before responding, it’s enough for her to take note of it, to count the number of times she blinks until she hears an answer. _Six._ His mouth tightens at the corner and it’s probably far too subtle for anyone else to notice, but she sees it, sees him, and tries not to wonder. 

“I’ll have a cup o’ tea, if ye dinna mind it. Wi’ a wee bit o’ honey and milk,” he tells her, and she stops dead in her tracks, trying to process the information. His face is devoid of any emotion, save for the look of casual politeness one adopts when they’re in another’s space, and she breathes in, slowly, deeply. 

Tells herself that it’s simply a coincidence. 

“Of course.”

She turns, busying herself once more, pouring hot water into each mug, watching the liquid swirl and change as it hits the tea bag, blurred rivulets of reds and browns intertwining and then fading. Then streams of gold, as she squeezes the honey in, thick ribbons falling to the bottom of the glass vessel, forming an uneven layer, not unlike sand upon the ocean floor. And finally, a splash of milk in each, a quick stir of a spoon blending the different shades together, until she’s left with a rich beige, that brings to mind all the comforts of home. The tea bags are disposed of, the dirty spoon set into the sink and then she turns with both mugs in her hands, setting them down against the marble countertop with a soft clang. She nudges one over to him, the heated glass scalding the tips of her fingers by the time the mug is half-way across the counter. When he reaches out to intercept the drink, she shrinks back, trying to slow her movements enough to not arouse suspicion, but not wanting to risk the cliche of their fingers brushing in the exchange. 

“Thank ye,” he tells her, moving to hold the mug with both hands. It’s dwarfed by his grip, his fingers overlapping, and she takes it all in again, the way he’s sitting, slightly hunched over, like he’s too big for this space and is forcing himself to fit in where he doesn't quite belong.

Metaphorically, it's something she's all too familiar with.

She takes a sip of her tea, the familiar taste helping to settle the nerves that seem to be ever present whenever she thinks of him, watching as he does the same. He moves with such grace and fluidity, even with a motion so simple as removing containers from a paper bag. The smells wafting towards her are very much comforting, reminding her of Sunday brunches with Uncle Lamb. They would pick a different greasy spoon to visit each week and she was always allowed to order whatever she wanted. The late mornings and early afternoons would be spent there, slowly eating, savouring every bite. So often he would read through research or newspapers while she preferred stories of adventures from different times. She misses him, misses home, not so much the hustle and bustle of London but the sense of knowing where she belongs, somewhere to return to and feel safe. 

"It’s not verra healthy, but today's a cheat day and I thought we deserved it after all the hard work ye've put in at the studio already."

Gingerly, she reaches out and opens the container he’s placed in front of her, eyes widening when she takes in the enormous portion; a full English breakfast, not quite traditional but nostalgic all the same. 

“I ken yer from England and I thought ye might be missing home.”

The sincerity in his voice shines through, but she’s not quick enough to catch a glimpse of the expression on his face. He ducks his head, looking down at his own food, staring at the bacon as if he’s never seen anything quite as fascinating in his life and there’s a spark of frustration because she can’t get a read on him, can’t understand what on earth it is he’s thinking each time he speaks. 

She allows it to take over, for just a second. 

“Actually, I live in Scotland.”

If he hears the hint of hostility in her tone as she speaks, he shows no sign of it, only reacting with a simple nod of his head. 

They lapse into a prolonged silence after that, and she slowly picks at her food, wondering how things between them could simultaneously be so easy and so difficult. It seemed as though their relationship together could be encompassed by the expression _‘one step forward, two steps back.’_ No matter how much progress they had made by the end of the day, after hours spent together, moving in each other's arms, the ease of it all fell away the moment they parted and the next day they would find themselves back at square one.

There is no small talk or idle chatter as they eat; Marsali’s full attention is devoted to tapping away at her phone as usual. As uncomfortable as it is to have breakfast while standing up and leaning against the island bench, taking a seat by Jamie's side, knocking elbows with him as she slices through a piece of toast, seems infinitely worse. 

Claire had been convinced spending time with him in the company of another would be far easier for her, giving her a sense of heightened awareness that would help keep her emotions in check. She realises now that it's infinitely worse, having yet another pair of eyes on her, someone else to conceal her feelings from.

There's a sense of looming dread, that someone's going to realise, to make the connection and force her into a situation where Jamie looks her in the eye and tells her that he has zero recollection of the most memorable time in her life. Or worse, that he remembers her and has chosen not to say anything about it because he no longer feels the way he once claimed to.

_That he doesn't love her anymore,_ doesn't remember what it was they had between them, while she continues to hold onto this feeling, the most powerful thing she's ever felt. 

As tormenting as it is to live in the unknown, she's certain that the pain and anguish would only grow if she learns of the truth. 

Like Schrodinger's cat, she's both dead and alive, and she can do little but hope that it will remain this way until their time together ends once more. However they part, it _will_ be better than the last, and she can hold onto these happier memories for the rest of her life. 

* * *

When the awkward affair known as breakfast is over, they migrate over to the main living area. Thankfully, before Claire can agonise over seating arrangements, Jamie sinks down in one of the armchairs and begins looking through his own phone. She and Marsali settle on the sofa, and embark on a discussion that Claire is certain she will not retain much memory of.

“Now I’ve set ye up with accounts on Twitter and Instagram. Woulda made my life a lot easier had ye done it yerself years ago, because most of the variations of yer name were already taken. I had tae negotiate fer the Twitter handle because yer name just reaches the maximum character length. 'Twas an absolute nightmare.”

Claire nods along, not quite following everything coming out of Marsali’s mouth but figures she doesn’t need to have an intimate understanding of everything considering the woman has been hired to look after these things for her. 

There's all sorts of information ranging from account passwords to what images should and shouldn't be shared, how much interaction she wants to have with others and how much control she wants to surrender. In the end, they settle on letting Marsali handle just about everything, giving Claire the option to approve posts and such. Learning about this entire process gives her much more appreciation for Marsali's responsibilities.

She still cannot make sense of it, but she appreciates it all the same.

They iron out the finer details and then Marsali excuses herself to make a call, making her way back over to the kitchen and speaking in hushed tones.

Claire stares at her own phone, gaze fixed on the dimmed screen as she ponders whether she should speak up first or let Jamie do the talking. The reason he's here today is not lost on her, and by staying silent she's only delaying the inevitable, but she hesitates all the same. She sits there, brows furrowed in concentration, until a shadow falls over her and she jerks her head, looking up to find Jamie standing just beside her.

“If she's talkin' tae Fergus, she willna be joining us for a bit. I thought we could maybe talk about the show? In private, if ye dinna mind it.” With that last part, he turns his head towards the balcony doors and she nods, quickly standing and leaving her phone behind on the coffee table. 

She can feel his presence right behind her as she leads the way out to the balcony, and she has to remind herself to breathe. They've already made so many steps in the right direction, but she's so afraid that something could go wrong at any minute. She's afraid, but not of him.

Never of him.

With a shaky exhale, she opens up the balcony door, stepping out into the warm air of what she's learned to be a typical Los Angeles afternoon. She waits until Jamie joins her, and then closes the door behind them, gesturing with a tilt of her head for him to take a seat. When they’re both somewhat comfortably settled in, sitting so closely together that their knees are almost brushing, he begins to speak, and it’s very clear to her that he’s thought things through enough to take the lead in this conversation. 

“I gather that Geillis told ye what the producers want from us.”

She nods and raises a hand to her head, rubbing at her temples with her thumb and forefinger. They’d had this discussion before, on that first day when this partnership _truly_ began, before she had a panic attack in the middle of the street and spent God knows how long in his arms, allowing herself to be comforted by him. 

They had decided to go in with no agenda, and just to let things happen naturally. However, the network had different ideas, and wanted to sell them as romantic interests. _Anything_ to help bolster ratings. The producers wanted them to flirt on camera, online, to be photographed together around the city, and to present themselves as two people finding love in an unexpected place.

The thing that terrifies her the most is that she wouldn’t mind doing these things with him under any other circumstance, to share his space and be a part of his life, let him back into hers, but if it’s all for show, if she knows that he’s just _pretending_ , that’s something she can’t quite bear. 

“It's not a hardship tae spend time wi’ ye, truly.”

He looks her in the eye, quite possibly for the first time today, and she believes him, trusts that he’s genuine and wants to make this experience as stress free as possible for her.

“I think we should just be honest, wi’ each other and let people see us fer who we are. I ken ye have yer secrets, and I have mine, but we dinna need tae lie to each other and it doesna mean we canna enjoy this experience together, as a team.”

She reaches out to him then, fingers skirting over the healing bruises on the back of his hands and finally finds the courage to speak. 

“Thank you, Jamie.”

There’s relief, but also guilt, that she can’t be honest with him and tell him how she feels. 

_It’s a secret, not a lie,_ she tells herself in her mind, again and again until she finds herself being pulled back to reality when a large hand covers her own. He brushes a thumb over her knuckles, as she had done to him earlier, and hesitates just over her wedding band, hovering there, unwilling to make contact. 

“Yer husband’s a lucky man,” he murmurs after a moment, and she holds back a dark chuckle. 

“I suppose,” she tells him. Perhaps Frank had been fortunate, perhaps if the circumstances had been different, they could have settled into a happy and content life together, but the moment Jamie had entered her life, she had realised the truth. Whether unconsciously or not, Frank had trapped her, moulded her to fit inside a box, one shaped by his ideals and she had allowed him to, thinking that one could do anything for love.

But she hadn’t known love, not until Jamie. 

And now, after so long, the bitterness has faded and she’s grateful to him, because if it hadn’t been for his insistence she be a proper high-society bride, she would have never met a man that inspired her to follow her own heart. A man who had taken her heart in his hands and torn it apart, but was here now, slowly helping her heal, completely unaware of the truth. 

She doesn’t realise she’s crying until he reaches out, brushing away a tear before drawing her into his arms. He must think of her as such a mess, with a lack of control over her emotions, but he’s giving her support all the same. 

“Do you miss him?”

His voice sounds different, strained, but she has one ear pressed against his chest, the sound of his steady heartbeat thrumming loud in her ears, so she may well be imagining things. She mumbles her response into his shirt, closes her eyes and allows herself to cling onto this moment. His hand moves, the gentle pressure of his palm drawing circles between her shoulder blades, bringing her comfort through touch. There's something about being around Jamie that has her instinctively lowering her guard, losing her inhibitions and allowing her emotions to rise to the surface.

It's a vulnerability, allowing someone to see her like this. She's opening herself up to the possibility of being torn apart once more. Being here in his arms, she feels her armour falling away, and wonders if he has any idea of the effect he has on her.

Wonders if he knows that he’s the only one she’s ever allowed to see her like this.

Later that evening, after a hearty dinner from a local Thai restaurant delivered straight to her door, and a glass of wine (or two), she’s sitting at the piano, trying to string some notes together. Nothing sounds quite right; every tune is too familiar, like she’s heard them a thousand times before. She’s trying to find something new, something _different_.

Something that echoes exactly what it is she’s feeling.

Her phone buzzes, and she reaches over to grab it from its position on the little stool beside the piano, frowning when she sees that it’s somehow already one in the morning, and that Marsali is telling her to check her Instagram account and _reply._ She resists the urge to fire back a snarky remark about how that was _Marsali’s_ job and navigates her way to the application, opening it with a tap of her finger.

Faced with a mostly blank screen, she’s not quite sure what she’s supposed to be looking for, but then the first post loads and she freezes.

It’s an image of the two of them. 

_They had been sitting together on her balcony, watching a video on her laptop, one that he had found after a few particularly frustrating minutes navigating through YouTube. Sharing a pair of earphones, they were huddled together, shoulders almost brushing and bodies concealing the screen. After she had ruined his shirt with his tears, they had moved onto less sensitive topics, including listening to the song that the producers had assigned them for the first week. He had described to her all his thoughts on the choreographic process, the extra steps and flares they could add to their performance, and she had been enraptured by his passion for it._

The captured moment revealed so little and so much simultaneously, it makes her wonder how much others can see, how much could be discovered if it were to be dissected pixel by pixel, the contents scrutinised. 

Would they see the way she leaned into him, how her head was inclined and how little space she had left between them? She knows what had not been visually immortalised; the gentle inhale she had taken, a split second before this photo had been snapped, presumably by Marsali. The purse of her lips and slight flaring of her nostrils could not be seen, hidden from view by the tilt of her head and angle of her body, but she remembers.

Remembers how loud the sound of her heart had been, pounding in her ears. That she could still let him affect her so, despite her efforts to shield herself from the pain and trouble of unrequited love, is truly a testament to the kind of man he is.

When she scrolls a little further, she sees the caption that accompanies the photo, and feels _everything._

_Feeling so grateful to embark on an adventure with my new partner, a lady of grace, a woman of strength and an astonishing beauty._

She reads it, over and over, until the words become an indecipherable blur of letters, but the meaning behind them still comes through.

With shaking hands, she taps out a response.

Checks it, three times.

Hits send before she can talk herself out of it. 

She turns her phone over, setting it face down on the bench beside her, raising her trembling fingers back to the black and white keys and playing one simple chord, and then another. Slowly, note by note, a melody begins to form and she closes her eyes, releasing a staggering breath. There are so many emotions that she can barely contain them, and she channels them into her music, blocking out all else.

Somehow, she’s found her inspiration once more. 

And when she falls asleep that night, it’s to the tune of a brand new song and the image of the two of them, burned into her mind. 

_I couldn’t have asked for a better partner. I am so excited to learn to dance, and I feel so lucky to be here with you._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for taking the time to read my little story, I truly appreciate you all :) I would love to see your reactions in the comments!


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